


What's Cookin', Good Lookin'?

by gydima



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chef Derek Hale, Everyone's doing better, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, The Nemeton has been destroyed, Well-Adjusted Derek Hale, Well-adjusted Stiles Stilinksi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gydima/pseuds/gydima
Summary: Stiles earns his master's degree and returns to Beacon Hills to find Derek has become a chef (who definitely doesn't wear tiny hairnets on his eyebrows).





	What's Cookin', Good Lookin'?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [rumi-nyo's awesome artwork](http://rumi-nyo.tumblr.com/post/175569714605/entry-for-sterekreversebang-2018) as part of the Sterek Reversebang 2018. Make sure to lavish it with the praise it deserves and check out more of Rumi's work here: http://rumi-nyo.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks to B for the beta!

"Derek's a what now?"

"A sous chef at that fancy restaurant on Cypress," Scott says. 

"That's what I thought you said. How is that possible? I never saw him eat anything but..." Stiles pauses. "Wait, have I ever seen him eat? Maybe he only eats squirrels in the woods. That would explain so much about his grumpiness."

"No, man," Scott says. "You haven't seen him in a while. He's practically well-adjusted now. It's weird."

"Hmm, I'll believe it when I see it," Stiles says, squinting at the clock. He might need glasses. Or it might be eye strain. When did he last tear himself away from his computer to sleep?

"You can see it when you come home. When is that going to be?" Scott asks. 

Stiles sighs. "If I make it through my thesis defense without cracking, the second week of May. But no promises. I could lose my shit and decide to live feral in the woods."

"You don't even like camping," Scott points out like a traitor. 

"Maybe I would if I were insane."

"What would you eat?"

"Huh. I guess it depends on how insane I went. Maybe deer if I retain most of my faculties?"

"You think you could hunt deer?" Scott sounds dubious. 

"Maybe I'd get wilderness savvy," Stiles says. 

"Maybe you'd creep close to the roads at night and eat roadkill," Scott suggests.

"Hey, I resent that!"

They settle on fish. Stiles watched a documentary all about wilderness fishing once, and it just didn't seem that hard. 

##

Stiles realizes days later, waiting for his thesis defense committee to gather and fishing for something to distract himself, that he really glossed over the "Derek is a well-adjusted chef" topic. 

He’s surprised enough that Derek returned to Beacon Hills. He thought the guy would never go back, and he’d hardly blame him. They haven’t seen each other in...five years now? Stiles has changed, has gotten better since they destroyed the nemeton and he got EXTENSIVE therapy. It stands to reason Derek would be different, too. 

Still, he can't really imagine Derek being a functioning adult, much less working in a kitchen. Does Derek actually uncross his arms so he can use his hands? Does he wear one of those funny white hats? Does he ever (completely unhygenically) use his claws instead of knives? 

He amuses himself imagining Derek wearing a tiny hairnet on each of his eyebrows, so at least he's smiling when the committee calls him to face his fate.

##

"Congrats, son, I'm proud of you," his dad says, raising his glass of wine (red, of course, because it's better for his heart). 

Stiles clinks his beer against it and beams. "Thanks, dad." 

"I told you you'd do it," Scott says, and Stiles flaps a hand at him, yeah, yeah.

Stiles does his best to keep track of the conversation as he glances around the restaurant, trying to look like he's just taking in the ambiance. Sure, he's only been here like twice before, for his 18th birthday and before Scott's wedding. But he's trying to see if anything has changed since the last time. The decor is refreshed, there's new paint and more subdued lighting. The layout's the same, though, with the kitchen where it's always been. He's totally going to find a way to sneak back there and see if Derek really wears one of those silly hats.

Their meals come faster than expected. 

"Nice," Stiles says when he sees the waiter approaching. "I could get used to this fancy-schmancy service."

His meal is presented last, and Stiles swears the waiter gives an extra flourish when he puts the plate in front of Stiles. 

There are curly fries, and they are a thing of beauty. Only, this fancy place does NOT have curly fries on the menu. Stiles checked. 

Like a Pavlovian response, his head snaps up, half expecting to see Derek lurking behind a potted plant or something.

"Oh, shit," Scott says. "He made you curly fries." 

His dad heaves a sigh, and Stiles cranes his neck to watch the waiter head back to the kitchen. 

“He made me curly fries,” Stiles concurs.

He wants to get up and follow, but he's a damn adult now, and he has self-restraint. That's why he waited until his SECOND day back in town, thanks, before coincidentally deciding they should celebrate his master's degree here. 

So Stiles keeps his ass planted in the cushy seat and savors every last curly fry on his plate. There are no hard, burned bits straggling around, and every fry is a perfect spiral the likes of which Stiles has waxed poetic about multiple times in his life. 

The burger is great, but the fries? They're transcendent. 

(He's not sure if that's an objective fact, or if they're enhanced by the heady pleasure of knowing Derek made them just for him, because when Scott reaches for one, Stiles smacks his hand away so quickly it even takes STILES aback. No need for outside confirmation; these are his.)

He can’t help but keep looking back at the kitchen. He knows he won't get it past his dad, who gave him a knowing look the minute he said he wanted to come here to celebrate. But when he turns back to his food, even Scott's looking at him with his attempt at raising an eyebrow. He's got nothing on Derek, but who really does, when it comes to eyebrows?

"What?" Stiles says innocently. 

"Oh, nothing," his dad says. "I had no idea you had any ulterior motives coming here." 

Stiles sniffs. If they're not even going to pretend, he can abandon the subtle approach. "I'm going the the restroom," he says loftily, then pushes back his chair and walks in completely the opposite direction. Toward the kitchen.

He walks with purpose -- it's much easier to go places you're not supposed to be when you look like you know what you're doing -- then narrowly avoids getting smacked in the face when the door swings open right where he'd been walking. 

He hears Derek before he sees him. At least, he thinks it's Derek, because this person sounds...happy? Like, there's laughter in his voice? Stiles peeks through the window and doesn't see anyone coming, so he pushes the door open a bit and pops his head in. 

"I know we don't usually," Derek's telling someone, his back to Stiles and elbow moving steadily as he chops something Stiles can't see. He can hear the smile in Derek's voice and wishes he would turn around so Stiles could see it. "I made an exception tonight, and Dee isn't here to stop me."

Stiles glances around, but no one's paying him any attention yet. It's bustling back here, loud and hot. There's steam rising over the industrial ovens, and Stiles can smell expensive steaks and baked potatoes as well as butter and garlic and fresh bread. 

He steps quietly inside and stands to the side of the door so he won't get trampled by any harried waitstaff. It takes a moment, but Stiles sees the moment Derek freezes and lifts his head to sniff the air much less subtly than he should probably be doing.

Stiles still isn't prepared when Derek turns and meets his eye unerringly, smile still on his face. It's possible his smile actually widens, which whoa. "Devastating" wouldn't be a bad word to describe it. 

"Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles feels his mouth stretch into a matching grin. 

"I wanted to give my compliments to the chef," he says. "A+ curly fries, which is surprising since I'm told they're not even on the menu here."

A few people cast them curious looks as Derek heads toward Stiles, but it seems busy enough that that's all they have time for. 

"I'm glad to hear it," Derek says with a smile still quirking the corner of his mouth. And then he's stepping closer and wrapping Stiles in a tight hug, holy shit.

Stiles is taller now, he notes distantly as he returns the hug, holding on for longer than he should while Derek doesn't even try to pretend he's not breathing in Stiles' scent. 

When they finally pull apart, Derek doesn't let go immediately, holding Stiles by the shoulders and searching his eyes for a moment, and Stiles nearly feels his knees go weak with relief. It's still there. 

It's been years and thousands of miles and radio silence for so much of it, but that unexplainable connection is still THERE. 

So of course he says, "You look like a pirate," instead of anything appropriate, because Derek's not wearing a floppy white chef's hat, but he IS wearing a weird bandanna-type head covering. It's got a garish pattern of little red peppers, and Stiles loves it immediately.

"It's good to see you, too," Derek says. He takes his hands off Stiles' shoulders, but one slides down his bicep to hold his elbow lightly. His brow furrows a bit, and it's so ridiculously, beautifully familiar that Stiles laughs quietly. "You haven't been eating well, have you?"

"I just finished grad school. It's a requirement to forget to eat at least a few times a week and to eat garbage when you do remember."

"Hmmm," Derek says, and he's looking at Stiles' mouth, RED ALERT HE IS LOOKING AT STILES' MOUTH, like he wants to put something in it -- probably food, but Stiles doesn't want to discount other, better things. 

"Come by the loft tomorrow?" Derek says. "I got the kitchen remodeled -- well, the whole place, really -- and I can make you something."

"Yeah, OK," Stiles says. He's never been brave about this -- THEY'VE never been brave enough to acknowledge it, even -- but it's different now. Derek's different. It's in his eyes, warm and bright when they used to be suspicious and wary, and it’s in every open, relaxed line of his body. "When? I'll be there whenever you want me." 

Derek's hand tightens on his elbow for a moment and Stiles almost shivers. "I don't know. I don't have tomorrow off...yet." 

"Oh my god," Stiles says. He wants to kiss Derek then and there, but like he said before, he's an adult who can exercise restraint, yada yada. 

It's a close thing, though.

##

Stiles pulls up at Derek's building 10 minutes before he's supposed to be there. He hasn't so much as driven by the loft in at least four years, and the whole area looks different. The building has new windows, there's welcoming but drought-friendly landscaping, and the double doors at the front have been refurbished to look like a real grand entrance. There's a proper awning and carefully marked parking spots in the half-full lot. It looks like a place people SHOULD live, now.

Stiles wonders idly how much Derek spent fixing everything up, but he wonders more what the loft looks like now. How much work did Derek put into his own living space? A few days ago Stiles might have said not much, but he's pretty sure he would have been wrong. 

Since Derek will have heard him pulling up, Stiles doesn't bother to wait and pretend he didn't arrive early like the overeager teenager he never fully outgrew. 

The elevator looks so different Stiles isn't sure it's even the same one. It's a smooth ride up to the top floor, and Stiles takes a deep breath as he steps out. The door to the loft is standing open and he can smell...breakfast?

"Come on in, I'm almost done," Derek calls, and Stiles takes a hesitant step inside. He doesn't fight his immediate defensive instinct to pull the door closed behind him and check the lock.

The loft is different, all right. There’s no hole in the wall, first and foremost. The brick has been cleaned, making the space look warmer and brighter. Derek installed hardwood floors, and there are RUGS and lamps and a comfy looking couch as well as chairs with PILLOWS. Tall bookcases are loaded with their fair share of books, but there are also spaces intentionally cleared for knick-knacks and framed photos. The huge windows have new glass, but it's as close to the originals as Derek could probably get, it looks like. 

He wanders toward the kitchen island, stopping to touch the short, flexible spikes on a tiny cactus in another window. That's when he feels something touching his calf and hears the snorting. 

He jerks around and finds...a dog. It's a fat little pug who stares up at Stiles with bulging eyes and a tongue stuck halfway out of its closed mouth.

"Can you breathe like that, buddy?" he asks, and as if in response, the dog opens its mouth to start panting. "What a cute doggy smile," he says with a grin, crouching down to pet...him, Stiles concludes when he takes a look at the dog's undercarriage. 

"His name is Pugsley," Derek says, watching him from the other side of the island, elbows resting on the black marbled granite.

Stiles snorts at the same time Pugsley does. 

"Did you name him or did he come like that?"

"I named him," Derek says and turns back to the stove. Stiles scratches under Pugsley's chin for a minute before following Derek into the kitchen to wash his hands. Pugsley follows him, claws clicking on the hardwood before he flops down into a bed in the corner of the kitchen.

Stiles freezes before he even reaches the sink. The kitchen's gorgeous -- plenty of stereotypical stainless steel appliances, gleaming mixers and food processors and the most extensive spice rack Stiles has ever seen. But that's not what captures his attention most. Derek is barefoot, wearing soft-looking pants that aren't quite sweatpants, but a close cousin, and, of course, a blue henley. 

Jesus. Stiles swallows hard, remembering the kitchen as it used to be, a dark, mostly unused area with an old refrigerator, a microwave and a stove that didn't even work. And Derek...Stiles has never seen him without shoes, wearing something other than jeans, not poised to run the minute he needs to. 

He clears his throat and eventually asks, "Are you making me breakfast for dinner?" (Again, SO much self-restraint. He only considered asking "What's cookin', good lookin'?" for a split-second.)

"That a problem?" Derek asks over his shoulder, flipping a burner off without looking. 

"Are there pancakes?" Stiles asks. 

Derek doesn't answer. Instead, he says, "Go sit down. I'll be done in a sec."

Stiles peeks over Derek's shoulder and snatches a piece of bacon from a plate. Derek totally lets him. 

When Stiles turns to go sit at the island, Pugsley is suddenly standing right in his path, staring at the bacon and breathing heavily.

"Uhhh," Stiles says, "do you give him bacon?"

"Oh, god no," Derek says. "He's on a diet. Give me just a sec to put him in his room."

Stiles settles down at the island, watching as Derek scoops up Pugsley and takes him through a door into an area that didn't used to exist. It's like he built a bedroom that opens out onto the balcony. Which, Stiles cranes his neck to see, yep, has a little dog bed and water bowl and one of those artificial turf potty squares. Jesus, Derek build his dog its own room with balcony access. He named his pug PUGSLEY and has it ON A DIET.

"Oh my god," Stiles says around a mouthful of bacon, and he SWEARS Derek is blushing when he comes back in. 

"That's enough out of you," Derek says, pointing at him as he heads back into the kitchen.

"I didn't say a word," Stiles say, lifting his hands in innocence. 

"Uh-huh," Derek says. "You OK with fried eggs?"

"Yeah," Stiles responds, watching Derek grab a carton from the refrigerator and crack an egg open one-handed into a skillet.

It's almost hypnotic to watch Derek work, more comfortable and at home than Stiles ever imagined he'd see the guy. Stiles realizes he he’s been paying far more attention to Derek than he has to the food when Derek grabs a plate and starts dishing up the finished meal. Which, aside from the eggs and bacon, Stiles has no idea what it comprises.

"Jesus, do you think that's enough food?" he asks when Derek comes around the island and sets the plate carefully in front of him, with no plate of his own. 

"You tell me," Derek says, handing Stiles a fork. He settles on the stool next to Stiles and watches him expectantly.

"So you're just going to watch me eat?" Stiles asks, and it's a thing of beauty when Derek rolls his eyes just like Stiles remembers. "Cool cool."

He takes in the plate. There's the aforementioned fried egg and bacon, as well as sausage and toast, totally normal breakfast stuff. But there are also mushrooms, fried tomatoes and...

"Are these baked beans?" Stiles asks dubiously. "Is this like when Rachel made a truffle and the pages of the cookbook stuck together? 'Cause I'm seeing a distinct lack of pancakes and a few extra things I don't think are supposed to be part of the most important meal of the day."

"It's a full English breakfast," Derek says. "You looked like you could use one." 

Stiles squints at him. 

"Just eat it," Derek says, and it's a far cry from the gruff way he would have said it before. It's indulgent, fond, not gruff or impatient. 

"Yeah," Stiles says faintly, fumbling with the fork for a minute because he doesn't really want to look away from the expression on Derek's face.

Once he digs in, though, the food has his full attention. He was too nervous to eat lunch before he came over. 

"You like it?" Derek asks after a minute.

Stiles swallows and nods. "It's weird, but good. Kind of like you."

Derek quirks a smile and says, "Thanks."

"Why cooking?" Stiles asks, scooping up some beans onto his toast and trying to make sure he doesn't drop any onto his shirt.

It's quiet for a few moments while Stiles eats and starts to worry that he's making too much noise, so he chews carefully with his mouth closed. He can be polite.

"After I left," Derek says a few moments later, "I spent a while always looking behind me, waiting for something to happen. I had spent so long just trying to survive that I didn't know what else to do. How do you deal with a future you never thought you were going to have?"

Stiles sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye, and makes a move to put his fork down. This seems like a conversation best had while not shoveling food into his mouth. But Derek waves him off and looks down at his own hands, and OK, Stiles gets that. Sometimes it's easier to speak without looking someone in the eye.

"I went to culinary school for a while in New York, before we met," Derek says, clearing his throat. "I always liked to cook. I never finished because of... Well, you know." 

Stiles nods and takes a careful bite of his toast. 

"A couple of years ago, I decided to go to France. That's where my dad studied. We had this Julia Child cookbook we used together when I was a kid. Anyway, I enrolled in a school there. One of my instructors was from England and came in hungover one day. I mean, it wasn't obvious, but I could smell it."

Stiles wrinkles his nose and Derek huffs a laugh before continuing. 

"We were supposed to be working on souffles, I think, but he had us all make an English breakfast instead. I'm pretty sure he just went around the room testing everyone's meals to get rid of his hangover. 

"Then, after he finished, he sat down and gave the most satisfied sigh I've ever heard. And he told us, 'While you’re here you'll learn far more complex recipes than anything you did today. And people will be impressed when you serve them a perfect souffle or golden-roasted duck. But remember the little things, the basics. No one eats a souffle as comfort food. No one eats roast duck every day. But a good English breakfast...'"

Stiles turns to look when Derek trails off. "Yeah?" he asks around a mouthful of beans (they really do complement the rest of the meal).

"I don't know the rest. He just kind of trailed off and stared into middle distance until we all cleaned up and left. I've never been sure if he was asleep or in a post-breakfast trance." 

Stiles tries not to spray masticated bits of beans on Derek when he laughs. 

Derek smiles softly but waits until Stiles turns back to his food before taking a deep breath and continuing. "I guess the point is, I'm not trying to impress you. You already know who I was and what I'd done, good and bad. But I want you to know who I am NOW. Is that something you would want, too?"

Stiles stops in the process of lifting food to his mouth. He drops it onto to the plate and pushes the whole thing away to turn his full attention on Derek. Derek is resting his chin on one hand, watching Stiles with an expression of contentment and peace that Stiles would never even have thought his face was capable of making all those years ago.

"Hell yes," Stiles says fervently. 

Their first kiss tastes a little bit like baked beans.

## 

It starts out innocently enough, but it escalates quickly because it's been so long coming that neither one of them can seem to get enough of each other. They move it to the couch and Stiles ends up on top of Derek, settled between his legs with one hand buried in Derek's hair while he props himself up on his other elbow. 

Derek's facial hair is softer than Stiles expected, but he can tell he'll end up with beard burn from making out too long anyway. 

Derek's hands have been wandering Stiles’ back, but when one moves down to his ass and Stiles instinctively grinds down, he SWEARS the whimper he hears didn’t come from him. 

OK, it actually wasn’t him, because Derek pulls back and turns his head to look out the window. Stiles follows his lead. 

"Your dog is watching us," Stiles says. Pugsley scratches at the window pathetically. 

"He wants back in. It's dinner time for him," Derek says. 

"Pugsley, man, why?" Stiles asks when Derek flips them over and DOESN'T resume making out. Derek's GETTING UP, and it's a damn travesty. (Even though it's a pleasure to watch Derek walk away in those pants. They cling in all the right ways.)

Stiles lies there, telling his dick to calm down and eventually smothering it with a pillow when Derek carries Pugsley back inside. He listens to Derek not-quite baby-talking his dog, but definitely using a special dog voice, and smiles at the ceiling. 

"Derrrrrekkkk," he calls after a minute, when Pugsley's chomping away at his food. "Don't you want to see to your BOYFRIEND'S needs, too?"

Derek leans over the back of the couch a moment later, carding a hand through Stiles' hair. "Boyfriend already?"

"We're moving fast here, try to keep up," Stiles says, wrapping his fingers around Derek's wrist and tugging. Derek lets him pull him over the back of the couch and lands on Stiles -- purposefully hard, Stiles thinks.

"Oof," Stiles says. "Oww, I'm hurt."

Derek cocks a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh really," he says flatly. "Did you need me to kiss it better?"

"Yes," Stiles says emphatically. 

"Where are you hurt?" Derek asks, mouth softening into a half-smile.

Stiles smiles back beatifically. "My dick," he says.

"Are you trying to bait me into sucking your cock?"

"Well, I AM a MASTER baiter now," Stiles says. "I can show you my degree and everything."

Derek groans. "That joke is the entire reason you got a master's degree, isn't it?"

Stiles just grins, and Derek smacks him in the face with a pillow. 

"You're gonna have to kiss that better, too!" Stiles cries.

Pugsley, sensing strife, skitters across the floor, snort-barking the whole way.

END


End file.
